Dust rose, a cloud shunted this way and that by the downward rush of the fallen wall. Gilliam did not give the dust time to clear; he forced his people away from the enemy as fast as he could.
But Stephen knew what had destroyed the wall; Gilliam felt the tension of that knowledge, the welter of the fear that Stephen could almost—but not quite—conceal from him.
I’ll protect you, he thought, and the thought was so forceful, the intent so true, that Stephen’s fear ebbed a little.
• • •
From the grand foyer, at the foot of the stairs, The Terafin felt the building shake. Ornaments—vases and plaques, framed paintings and free-standing sculptures—shuddered; some fell, and some held their ground. A silence more profound than panicked cries and shouts descended upon them.
Then Alayra spoke, and her voice was a quiet, gravelly sound that didn’t quite fit in. “It’s got to be the western wing.”
No one gainsaid her; they all had ears.
Silence again, and in it, the questions were gathering. The Terafin watched her Chosen; in some ways, each of them, woman or man, were Terafin to her. She had handpicked them from a number of supplicants almost too great to remember, had added to them over the years as a candidate proved himself or herself worthy of the honor. There was no better place to make a stand, surrounded by these, and honored by them.
And silence, she knew, was an unacceptable offering to their loyalty. “Where is the mage?” she asked.
“The mage,” came the silver-toned response, “is here.”
He was, standing in the glow of a light so bright it was hard to gaze upon. His raiment was almost practical—a dark cloth tunic, laced with silver or platinum, but collarless; leggings, not the fancy dress of the Order, in the same material.
“Where is Torvan?” The Terafin said sharply, perhaps too sharply.
“He could not travel in haste,” was the grave reply. “Not armored and burdened as he was. I chose to travel ahead to the rendezvous. If,” he added, “that is acceptable to The Terafin?”
“It is acceptable,” was the brittle reply.
“Good. What, by the Dark Court, is happening?”
“Torvan didn’t brief you?”
“He said it was urgent that I meet you in the foyer as it was where you would be directing affairs. Or something similar; I confess that I don’t remember his exact wording. When I attempted to discover what, exactly, it is that you intend to be”—and here he stopped to take in the full, and functional, armor and armaments that the Chosen and their leader wore—“fighting, he didn’t have a satisfactory answer.”
“No,” she replied. “But I hope you do. If I’m not mistaken, our enemies—and I believe they are at the very least Allasakari—have just attacked our walls.”
“Walls?” he said sharply. “The manse doesn’t have walls—it barely has gates.”
“Ah. I meant, of course, the walls of the mansion itself.”
“Interesting,” was the soft reply.
The Terafin looked at his suddenly neutral expression more carefully. She had known Meralonne—in a manner of speaking—for years. But she had never seen him look quite so . . . luminous. Or, for that matter, so anticipatory. Or was it just her imagination? His face, as usual, gave nothing important away. Oh, he played with emotion, blustered, made the right sort of noise—but it was a mask as much as perfect composure could be said to be one. Perhaps, tonight, she might get a glimpse of the real man beneath the mage’s face.
She took a little comfort from the thought—because beyond it, there was only cost. To the House, at the very least.
• • •
There. In the foyer, of course, where just about anyone could sneak around her and get a good shot. Jewel snorted, ground her teeth in frustration, and then stopped. No point in it, not now; if someone could sneak in, then so could the den; if someone could hide in the shadows, unseen, then so could her own.
She flinched as she stared at the mage; he was bright and pale and tall—and his hair was unfettered by anything smart. Like a braid. What did these people think a fight was?
“Jay?”
Of course, there wasn’t much in the way of shadow here.
Yet.
• • •
The clangor of armor—light armor—came in from the east. A guard, wearing the surcoat of Terafin. Messenger, from his dress, although he wore two swords and a shield slung over his back. He fell at once to his knee in front of The Terafin, slid an inch or two, and hit his breastplate hard and fast.
“Report.”
“The gate’s being attacked. It won’t last long. I think there’s at least one mage out there. Probably two.”
“Who?”
He looked up, his eyes seeing new death, sudden death, before they saw her. Who was he? Kevin, she thought, or perhaps Kalvin—he was a newer guard. A young one. He swallowed. “It’s—it’s Darias.”
“Darias?” She could not keep the surprise and the anger out of her voice.
“Darias colors,” he said, holding his ground even as he averted his gaze. “Captain Jed’ra confirmed it.”
“But that’s insane!” Alayra said, speaking for every member of the Chosen who knew better. Alayra had never been selected for occasions of pomp and rarely stood on ceremony. “They—they must be fighting under false colors.”
“They aren’t our friends, and never have been,” the young man shot back. He paled as he remembered where he was, and with whom. “Captain Jed’ra—Captain Jed’ra recognized some of the guards. The officers. Three of them. He says they’re Darias all right. There are a hundred and fifty men, maybe two hundred. And that’s only at the gate.”
“Go back to the captain,” The Terafin said softly. “Resume your post. Alayra.”
Alayra saluted, her face etched into dark and angry lines. “Terafin.”
“It’s not just two hundred,” a new voice—a tired one—said. Torvan ATerafin came, from the small hall to the south, into the foyer. “They’ve about forty men in the back. None of them are wearing any colors; they’re in dark clothing. We spotted them early, and the archers were keeping them at bay.”
“Were?”
He swallowed, raising a mailed hand to wipe the sweat from his brow before he realized how futile that was. “There’s some sort of magery at work out back. Shadows,” he added, his eyes wide. “Darkness.”
And then, the last blow: the sound of the bells in the gardens; the sounds of metal alloy being struck and struck again. Fire.
• • •
Stephen ran down the hall. At his side was the young Evayne, not nearly as frightened as he; at his back, taking the rear line of defense—the only important line—were Gilliam, Ashfel, and Singer. Gilliam had taken the lead for as long as their absolute safety required it; he took the back when it was clear that the worst of the threat lay behind, on their trail. Espere and the rest of the dogs were ahead, the vanguard of the small group. He should have felt safer, to have them all there.
But he felt alone. The darkness had pulled from his waking mind the memory of nightmare; he could see, more clearly than the lovely Imperial architecture, the rough-hewn stone of an old Breodanir church with its empty, shadowed passages. Death was behind him; the screams had just faded. Only his bond with Gilliam touched him at all, and he clung to it while at the same time trying to hide from it.
“To the left!” Evayne shouted, and Stephen shifted down the hall that opened to his side instead of continuing down the straight path.
“Where are we going?” Gilliam shouted back, although he shifted his pack to accede to her sudden command.
“Deeper in!” was her response. “There were guards—I saw them—many—maybe they were—ready for this!”
Stephen felt Gilliam’s momentary territoriality give way to practicality as he ceded command to Ev
ayne, but kept the responsibility of their protection for himself.
• • •
Jewel knew, before she started, that there was no good ground position to occupy. Problem was that there didn’t seem to be much of a mediocre one either, and poor didn’t cut it. The foyer, while it seemed a stupid place to make a stand—it was far too exposed—was, in fact, very hard to launch a sneak attack from. There were no alcoves, no little halls, no servants’ supply closets—there was barely any furniture. There were long, slender ovals and one mirror that trailed the length of the staircase from the door to the lower hall; there were plants, of a tall and thin variety, that were good at hiding nothing.
“Jay?”
She shook her head and Angel subsided. “It’s either here on the landing or there.”
Carver looked at the “there”: the stairs themselves, wide and grand, with cold, polished marble beneath a fixed layer of woven and hand-knotted carpeting. “You’re crazy,” he said flatly.
“Good. You come up with a better place. Now.”
At that, he fell silent, scanning the area just as she had. Then he shrugged, which was his version of a graceful surrender.
They crouched below the rail, out of habit and not because the spindles provided any cover, and then began to quietly crawl down the stairs. On impulse—an impulse that she didn’t bother to question—Jewel took the southern rails and began her vigil; The Terafin stood at the foot of the stairs below. She had to be careful; the steps of her home had been short and high, and the rails close enough together a mouse would barely fit through. These, a mixture of stone and brass, were spaced as the steps were; there were gaps between them wide enough to fall through if she turned sideways.
Wide enough to push someone else through, if it came to that.
Don’t look up, she thought, although at whom she didn’t know.
• • •
“Your pardon, Terafin,” Meralonne said gravely, as the bells ceased their clanging. “But I believe that you will find there has been some interference in the duties of your guards.”
“Shall I?”
“Yes. I thought it best, after speaking with Torvan, to stop at the gates a moment.” His eyes were steel in motion, flashing as if at reflected light. “The fire that your servants are ringing is not exactly as it seems.”
“What?”
But he laughed, fey and wild; a younger man. “I believe that my duty is at the gate; your young Sentrus seemed to feel that there was a ‘mage or two’ present—and it is strictly forbidden, by edict of the Magi, to practice magic of this nature in Averalaan Aramarelas without a writ of approval, signed in full.
“Which reminds me. Terafin, I give this to your keeping, as it may become necessary if I am not in a position to defend myself after this eve.” He handed her a rolled scroll; it was not sealed.
“And this?”
“A writ. Signed in full by the council, of course.”
She laughed; it was the first laugh of an evening that had given her, as yet, no cause for mirth. “Alayra,” she said, sobering quickly. “Accompany the mage.”
“Is he to be in command?” Alayra said stiffly.
“He is to be an adviser. A valued adviser.”
The older woman gave a gruff snort, but her shoulders were slightly less stooped than they had been. “Come along, then.”
He drew his sword, cut a lattice of colored light in the air, and then bowed as they stared. “At your service, ATerafin,” he said gravely.
• • •
Jewel noticed it at once, because her only role on the stairs was that of observer. The sword was silent. The scabbard from which it had been drawn vanished into cloth and air. The blade was long and fine and slender—like a razor more than a sword—but she knew it was not for show and not for dress.
And she knew that the mage knew how to wield it; how to use it to best advantage. She did not question how she knew it; she never questioned that feeling.
But she did wonder why a member of the Order—a member of the mythic Council of the Magi—would resort to such a weapon when he had so many more at his disposal. The blade danced in the air, glittering like ice. She shivered and tried very hard not to wonder anymore.
• • •
The Terafin took the luxury of a few seconds to watch Meralonne, light and lithe in his movements, leave the hall. Alayra seemed stocky and heavy beside him, but at least she was a known and trusted quantity. Then, without turning, she called, “Arrendas.”
His dark-bearded chin bobbed as he bowed his head and made the salute.
The sound of mailed fist against plate brought her back to herself and her duties. She turned quietly. “The second rank of archers?”
“Hidden, as you requested. Ready.”
“Good. I believe that the moment is now.” Her gaze was intent.
He saluted again, bowing stiffly as he turned to relay the orders to a waiting messenger in the mouth of the southern hall. He stumbled as the building shook again. This time, they heard the sound of falling stone and knew it for what it was.
Wordlessly, the Chosen began to form up, the majority of their numbers placing themselves between their Lord and the southern halls.
• • •
Stephen wiped the sweat from his brow, surprised that sweat could exist in such a cold place. His single backward glance took in shadows that the lights did not cast and could not dispel; the shadows were closer now, the pursuit faster.
The wall collapsed behind them, sending shards of stone into his calves and his back. He heard Gilliam curse, and felt his Hunter’s rush of fury as the dogs yelped.
He ran, knowing as he did that the lamps at his back were being guttered, one by one. His hands were bleeding; he furled them into fists and felt a dull ache, followed by a rush of a warmth, of too much warmth. Opening them, he glanced down.
Saw his feet; saw the rough-hewn stone beneath them. The dead were at his back—all the dead. And before him . . .
“Left!” It was his voice. He knew, or thought he knew, where he was running. Knew, or thought he knew, what he would find. And then he bit his lip, and the fog of memory cleared slightly. This was no dream; the waking world knew itself, and he knew it. The sanctum of his wyrding was a sanctum to a Hunter God, not to a mortal lord, and besides, the Horn of the Hunter was already his.
And he would not wind it.
He swore, in the silence of heartbeat and raw breath, that he would not wind it.
Blue light lanced past—through—his shoulder. He screamed, grabbing at it, the world rushing up to meet his face. By his side, another scream, a foreign one, and inside, in the darkness that only one other person could touch, fear and anger. He clutched the anger as he clutched the blue mage-light, fighting it as if it were a serpent.
“I am Oathbound!” he cried, throwing it, writhing, into the darkness. “You have no hold over me!”
And the darkness answered with a voice he had heard once before. “Have I not? A pity, little mortal, for you are young and not unpleasant to look upon.”
With the darkness as wreath and robe, Sor na Shannen stepped out of the shadows, leading her followers into battle.
• • •
The Allasakari were part of legend and part of history; priests of a God that no civilization, save one, had ever openly allowed the worship of. They were mad, or so she thought them; for in time, their minds were devoured by the activities that the darkness spurred them to; they became pale imitations of, and dwindling servants for, the kin that they were ordered by their Lord to summon.
And that, The Terafin thought, was one of the reasons that she—in any situation—would never be Allasakari. To serve, for Amarais Handernesse, had never been enough. It never would be. And to sit at the feet of something that claimed with ease what she could imitate but could never truly attain�
�to spend her life being nothing more than a mockery of a demon, or any of the horde beyond, for that matter, was death. Worse than death.
What did they gain for it? Power, of a sort.
But at a price far too great to pay: all pride, all dignity. And, she thought, with a wry grimace, all humanity. It would not do to forget what the Allasakari actually did in their attempt to better be like the kin. If they realized that that was what they achieved in their sorry tenure.
The hilt beneath her hand was warming; she waited, knowing that these thoughts were idle, but thinking them just the same. The attack on the gate was an attack, but she was certain that it was not more; it was diversionary. The real enemy was within the manse already, hunting beneath the arches of her halls—killing her kin in the smug surety that the bulk of her force was occupied.
Terafin fought you, she thought, and then smiled, realizing where the thought was going, and how best to use its truth and its defiance.
Lifting her sword, she gazed at her Chosen. “Terafin fought the Allasakari and their mage-born followers,” she said, her voice the steady, strong force that it had almost always been. “And became one of The Ten, revered above all others save the god-born.” The pitch of her tone changed as she faced the southern hall and the shadowy tendrils, tentative and barely visible, that slowly crept along the base of the walls. “Come. Your enmity began our road to greatness; let it continue that road, unhindered. We are ready!”
• • •
Behind, there was darkness; ahead, there was light. But for how long? How long? The halls of the manse were terrifying in their length and breadth. At any moment, Stephen thought their enemies might step from the sides or cut off their escape at the front. He prayed, as he had not prayed in years, the words a silent mantra, said so often they lost the edge of their sense, but not their intensity.
His chest hurt; he realized, with a start, that he had almost left Evayne behind and began to reach for her wrist, wondering when he had dropped it. But the color of her robes, the way they twisted at her feet as if they had a mind and will of their own—they reminded him of dreams. Wyrd.
The Sacred Hunt Duology Page 92